


Fen'Harel's Teeth

by Spoiler



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-23
Updated: 2015-04-02
Packaged: 2018-03-19 05:46:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3598626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spoiler/pseuds/Spoiler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the Solasmancers Secret Santa #2:</p><p>Prompt: The Creators are freed and they are not happy with Fen'Harel. They are out for vengeance, but instead of torturing the Dread Wolf, they realise that there is someone he loves, Lavellan. They decide to take their vengeance out on her instead, while Fen'Harel is forced to watch. Much angst, and happy ending is preferred. No noncon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Scheme A Little Scheme

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ANordDidIt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ANordDidIt/gifts).



> So I'm running a little late on posting this, but it will be finished within an hour or two. Also the beginning is slightly ridiculous, but I promise there will be much angst as it continues.

“We could turn her into a bear and hold a grand hunt,” Andruil suggested lazily. She was reclining sideways on her throne, legs carelessly dangling over one of the smooth ironbark arms and picking at a loose mosaic tile.

She had assumed plotting her revenge against The Dread Wolf would be more fun—like the old days when she'd catch him trying to work his charm on Ghilan'nain and put an arrow through his shin, but this wasn't the old days. He had really crossed the line this time, and coming up with a fitting punishment was proving difficult. He had locked the gods away and each had spent their incarceration brainstorming ideas to make him miserable...and now Andruil had to sit through each and every one. She was so bored she could cry. About the only thing anyone had been able to agree on was that torturing the Inquisitor would be more effective than anything they could do to Fen'Harel himself. He was such a masochist these days.

Ghilan'nain rolled her eyes.

“That's your solution to everything,” the goddess of hallas muttered testily. Being imprisoned together hadn't exactly done wonders for their relationship. Andruil needed her personal space. She wasn't Dirthamen.

“Fine,” the huntress said pointedly ignoring her partner. She turned to Elgar'nan. “What about you _All-Father_? Aren't you supposed to be the god of vengeance?”

The elder man knit his brow in thought.

“I say we smite the mortal,” he proposed after considering for a moment. “It's been so long since we smote anything.”

Falon'din pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration.

“For the last time,” he said--voice strained as though he were talking to a particularly stupid child. “No smiting! If she dies she becomes my problem.”

Dirthamen put a comforting hand on his “brother's” shoulder before turning to the other Creators.

“He's been under a lot of stress lately,” the lord of secrets stage whispered in explanation.

Falon'din sighed and rolled his shoulder back to shrug off his twin soul's hand.

“I have a suggestion,” a voice called meekly from the corner.

Andruil sat up in her chair, searching for the source of the sound. Her eyes alighted on her younger sister, Sylaise,who had abandoned her own throne when the fire began to dwindle and was currently fidgeting with the hot poker she had been using to stoke the hearth's flames. The huntress' eyes softened.

“Yes?” she encouraged.

Sylaise was arguably one of the most powerful members of the pantheon in terms of skill, but she had never much liked being the center of attention. Consequently, it was rare to hear her voice an opinion on anything.

“We could make her human,” she said quietly.

Everyone stared at her in silence, and the Heathkeeper went a bit red.

“If you don't think it's a good idea--” she began to backtrack, but June cut her off.

“No,” he said simply. “I like it.”

The others nodded their agreement.

 


	2. Fen'Harel's Cock

The hunter refused to lower his bow. Lavellan had known when she chose to let Solas remove her vallaslin that it might cause some confusion with her clan, but she hadn't expected them to react with quite so much hostility.

“Well, this isn't exactly the homecoming I was expecting,” she said trying to put the other elf at ease with a bit of humor.

She remembered the man currently threatening her life although when she left for the conclave he had barely hit puberty. He was older now and his face was adorned with the dark brown markings of Andruil to prove it. More time had passed than the Inquisitor had realized. She couldn't really blame her fellow clan member for not recognizing her.

A strange look flitted across the younger elf's features at her words. He almost seemed confused for a moment, but when she blinked the expression had been replaced once more with a tense wariness.

“This is not your home,” he spat.

Lavellan sighed heavily.

“Yes it is!” she exclaimed. “That's what I've been trying to tell you!”

His jaw tightened at that.

If only she could recall his name. It was on the tip of her tongue. Something with an 'r' or maybe a 'b'--Rynn something? Rynnel? Rynnlen?

“These are Dalish lands,” the hunter said angrily. “You are clearly not Dalish so stop trying my patience, and tell me what you're doing here.”

“I am Dalish,” she insisted. “Look, I know my vallaslin is gone but that's just because I had it removed.”

The archer seemed unconvinced.

“...with magic,” she finished lamely.

_Fen'Harel's cock,_ she thought.  _I wouldn't believe me either._

“ I'm from your clan!”  Lavellan pleaded. “ I can explain everything.  Just take me to the Keeper. She'll recognize me.”

“ The Keeper is dead,” the man informed her. He  tightened his grip on the bow and gestured with it threateningly . “--and I have had enough of your lies, shem.”

The news of her mentor's passing hit the Inquisitor like an arrow to the gut. For a moment she  almost  hought the other elf had finally taken aim.  The shock was so great that  it took a moment for the second half of the archer's sentence to register. 

_Shem?_

“I'm not--” she started to say, but then her fingers found the rounded tips of her ears and her eyes widened. 

The motion of raising her hands to ear level caused the contents of her pack to shift and something fell out of it onto the dirt. Lavellan turned to retrieve whatever it was but the bowman  shouted at her not to move. 

Carefully and with his eyes never leaving her the elf crouched down to pick up the object.  It was a circular wooden pendant, flat on one side and ornately carved on the other.  It hung from a braided loop of halla leather. The Inquisitor recognized it on sight, but she couldn't figure out how it had gotten there. It was the Keeper's seal.

_Well, shit._

 


	3. A Fable Gone Bad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is short. The rest should be up soon. Sorry it's late :(

The new Keeper was less friendly toward humans than Keeper Istimaethoriel had been. It wasn't surprising given the woman's background. She was from a different clan originally, one that had dwelt uneasily near a shemlen village. She had made no attempt to hide her distaste for the Inquisitor's perceived race as she sat in judgement. Lavellan had been found guilty of the most grievous offense one could commit under Dalish law—theft of history. The seal which had fallen from her pack had been passed down from Keeper to Keeper through the ages. It was, in fact, one of the oldest items her clan owned.

As if that sin weren't grave enough, Lavellan was now also suspected of the former Keeper's murder. Never mind that she had loved Deshanna like a grandmother. How else could such a personal item have come into a shem's possession if not by foul play? When asked why she had the seal, the Inquisitor hadn't been able to provide an explanation of any kind let alone a plausible one. In the eyes of the Dalish that made her as good as guilty, and the punishment for killing one of the People was severe.

Lavellan knew of Fen'Harel's Teeth, but her clan had always frowned on its practice in the past. She had never participated in the game herself, only heard whispers of what it entailed. It sounded made up, like the sort of story humans told one another about the savage elves in the woods. It was even harder to swallow now that it was her reality. Her hands had been tightly bound, and her strange human body stripped naked save for a cruel pair of leggings. She would be hunted by her own family and friends. It was like something out of a fable, only if a lesson existed the Inquisitor didn't understand it.

She had been given a head start, not that it would matter in the end. She wouldn't get far like this. Her thighs were already slick with blood from where the tiny nails dug into her flesh. Every step was agony. She could hear the clan's count off in the distance. It wouldn't be long now. They had almost reached one hundred.

 


	4. In Which Solas Sadsturbates

Solas thought nothing could be harder than leaving the Inquisitor's side, but staying away was proving to be more difficult. He had her scent now. He could find her anywhere, and some nights the temptation to see her face again came close to besting his resolve.

Each time he inhaled, Solas was greeted by the faint smell of his vhenan's hair. It didn't matter where he was. Far away or close by, there was no escaping her. He wondered if his own scent still clung to her pillows—if she felt a twinge of longing in each whiff.

_Better that she doesn't_ , he reminded himself. _Better that she forget completely._

The man knew she deserved more, but the wolf wanted her bed to carry his mark forever.

Solas took a deep breath and felt himself stiffen at the memories her fragrance evoked--his face buried against her neck as he bit back a growl, his nose brushing intimately against her as his tongue savored her taste, a moaned declaration of love elicited by his fingertips. He knew he shouldn't indulge such thoughts now that he had left the Inquisitor's side. It was unworthy of him to use memories of their time together for his own purposes. Even here it felt wrong, but if it would keep him from tracking her for another night he would allow himself this vice.

“Ir abelas, ma vhenan,” he whispered in apology. “Ar isala suledin.”

He inhaled her and images swirled to life. It was all there in perfect detail from the first touch to the last. Lavellan resting her forehead against his own, her hot breath against his face. He felt the ghost of her touch explore up his arms, across his shoulders, down his chest. He remembered the firm pressure of her thighs locked around his hips—recalled how desperate his body had been to spill itself into his sa'vhenan'ara even as his mind recoiled at the selfishness of his desire. He could almost feel her presence--the indomitable spirit that identified her as easily as a birthmark. Solas hadn't forgotten what it was like to be near her. He ached to return to her side more than anything.

He stroked himself clumsily as he reminisced. His fingers ran up and down his length with none of his vhenan's precision. He focused on her smile and was rewarded with a light twitch against his own palm. Solas quickened his pace and felt a familiar flutter in his core signaling that he was nearing his finish. He wasn't prepared for it to be over, yet. He didn't want to awaken with no one by his side.

_You_ _deserve no better,_ he reminded himself.

The memory of their talk by the waterfall was forced to the front of his mind. He would never forget the hurt in her eyes as she searched his face for an explanation. Even in her pain she had been so beautiful. Solas clenched his jaw and rocked desperately into his own hand. His grip was hard and unsatisfying, but for a moment he was back in Crestwood crushing his sa'lath to his chest. It was enough to send him over the edge--past the spasms of imagined passion and into the harsh light of consciousness.

Solas awakened on the bare ground in a nameless forest, utterly ashamed and utterly alone. The Fade had proven a poor substitute for what he truly desired. The Inquisitor remained the one thing it was unable to replicate.

The weary mage shuddered against the morning dew, and the cold air carried Lavellan's scent over his palate once more. She was close now, closer than she had been in months. He sniffed in her direction despite his better judgement. On four legs he could reach his vhenan by nightfall—see her again if only from a distance. The heart still in Solas' chest skipped at the thought.

_In tu setheneran din emma na_ , he counseled himself. _She is_ _yours_ _no longe_ _r. No good will come of this._

But it was too late for reason, he was already running.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ar isala suledin - (I don't vouch for the grammar on this one). Literally it means something like "I need to endure". In the context, Solas is apologizing for not having the strength to endure on his own.
> 
> In tu setheneran din emma na - Do not dwell in lands no longer yours. (It's an idiom taken from a Elven song.)


	5. The Hunt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize again for how late this is. Thanks for being patient.

She had to be smart about this. Lavellan knew outrunning a Dalish clan in her current state wasn't possible, but that didn't mean she had to make things easy for them. Human or elf, she was still the Inquisitor. She had saved the world. Surely she could save herself.

She limped unsteadily into the deep woods searching desperately for a hiding place. Trees were out. They were all too sparse this time of year to provide much coverage, and the few leaves that remained seemed concentrated high in the forest canopy. Anything involving climbing was futile. Even if the Inquisitor's leggings hadn't been lined with spikes the hard, thick leather would have restricted her movement enough on its own.

There was rustle nearby and the Inquisitor realized the voices were getting closer. The hunters had finished their count. Time was up.

_Creators save me,_ she thought.

Panic was beginning to set in now. Her eyes darted hopelessly around her surroundings seeking shelter of any kind. The only refuge close enough to reach was a large pile of rocks. Lavellan stumbled toward it--skin breaking with each halting step. She caught a sweaty bunch of her own hair between her teeth to muffle any cries.

_Just a bit farther,_ she told herself. _One foot in front of the other._

The pain was excruciating no matter how gingerly she shifted weight, but somehow she managed to make it to her sanctuary. She sighed with premature relief. Her bare feet tripped over a twig sending her sprawling toward the boulders. Her left shoulder smashed full force into the edge of one—bound hands unable to break the fall. Lavellan hit the ground--rolling in the grass, her suddenly long limbs instinctively drawing inward like the legs of a dying spider. The thoughtless motion set a fresh wave of suffering through her body. The Inquisitor felt a definite pang in her shoulder. She was almost sure it was dislocated, but there was no time to check for certain. Even her own agony couldn't dull the sound of approaching footsteps.

Lavellan managed to move herself behind the rocks with an awkward series of jerky wriggles that made her see stars. She tried to make her body small, but it was an impossible task. She felt wide in this human form, broad. As an elf she had been lithe and wiry—her body perfect for flitting through the forest without a sound. Now she was...sturdy--still slim by human standards nearly double her normal size.

_Just what I needed,_ she thought sarcastically.

Wide hips were nice and good when you didn't have to worry about keeping them out of view. Contorted awkwardly behind a pile of rocks, they weren't doing her any favors. She just hoped the hunters wouldn't linger.

The Inquisitor didn't dare risk a peek at her captors, but whether her clan believed it or not she was Dalish. Growing up in the woods had given her excellent hearing. She listened intently—gathering information. There were two of them. Their movements didn't seem disjointed which meant they were used to stalking the forest together—a hunting pair probably. When there were people enough, the elders liked to group the apprentices together that way. It was an informal version of matchmaking. Force your strongest hunters to spend every waking moment together and maybe they'll repopulate Arlathan with their hardy progeny—that sort of thing. That Lavellan had been able to hear this pair approach so clearly told her they were inexperienced.

“This is stupid,” one of them muttered. It was a female voice. The girl sounded young enough that Lavellan doubted the ink on her vallaslin was even dry yet.

“Fela!,” the other one chastised. He sounded even younger than his partner.

The thought of being so near two well-armed children was not comforting. At least an experienced hunter would put her out of her misery swiftly. These two would probably just shoot at her until they ran out of arrows.

The girl's name sounded familiar. Lavellan was pretty sure Fela had been the little brat who always talked through Deshanna's lore lessons. The memory of her former Keeper sent a twinge of loss through the Inquisitor, but now wasn't the time to grieve. She had to survive first.

“What?” Fela said defensively. “This _is_ stupid. Hahren should have just killed the shem earlier. Why bother chasing it? So we can waste arrows?”

“It killed the Keeper!” the boy argued. “We can't just slit its throat like it's some wounded halla. We have to send a message.”

Lavellan was pretty certain the girl was rolling her eyes.

“And what message is that, exactly?” Fela asked. “Stay away from those crazy knife-ears or they'll make you wear uncomfortable pants?”

The Inquisitor bit back a laugh.

“That's--” the boy started to say something before falling suddenly, eerily silent.

Lavellan heard one of the pair crouch down.

_They're examining something_ , she thought.

She raised her head off the ground a fraction and looked down at her legs. They were dripping blood.

_Andruil's bush! I've been leaving a trail,_ she realized. _Maybe I really am human._

The hunters' steps were cautious now--more muffled than they had been, but still audible. There were long pauses in between each footfall as though they were hesitating—as though they dreaded finding her.

_They're nervous,_ The Inquisitor thought. _They're just da'len'e_ _n. They've probably never killed anything bigger than a fennec_ _fox_ _._

Part of Lavellan wished Fela and her partner would just get it over with already. She was suffering. She was weak and tired from the blood loss. She could barely move. Unless the Creators' themselves decided to intervene there was no escaping this fate.

It wasn't like there was much left for her anyway. She had defeated Corypheus. Her role was complete. The Inquisition didn't need her. The rifts were sealed, the thrones filled, the conflicts resolved--Thedas had been set to rights. It had no use for her anymore. She had returned to the one place where her life might still have had some purpose, and look what had happened. The People would never accept her now, no matter how much knowledge she had to share. Her own family was trying to kill her, and the only man she had ever cared for was long gone. It seemed the Dread Wolf was the only one who wanted her.

_Fine,_ she prayed. _Fen'Harel take me. I am already caught in your teeth._

A hysterical sob of laughter escaped the Inquisitor's lips. If the hunters hadn't known her location before they certainly did now, but Lavellan couldn't stop. Her shoulders shook so hard she thought the dislocated bone might pop back into its socket. It was all just so terribly funny when she thought about it. Her life was one big, nonsensical comedy of errors--the sort of drivel an Orlesian playwright might pump out. The barefoot Dalish elf who conquered the world and died a human--stuck like a nug by an apprentice hunter from her own clan.

The girl rounded the rocks first, her bowstring taut and her form abysmal. That was funny too. Lavellan was sure she looked ridiculous—half-naked and caked in blood, giggling madly. At least the pair in front of her looked suitably horrified by the situation. They really were just children--terrified little children who couldn't seem to decide if they wanted to kill her or stare at her strange, human breasts.

“Do it,” she managed to gasp at Fela between bouts of tear-stained laughter. “Just kill me, lethallan.”

A strange expression passed the female hunter's face at the Inquisitor's word choice. She seemed confused and a bit uncertain. Fela lowered her bow.

“What are you doing?” the boy hissed from behind her.

She looked from her bow to the Inquisitor and back again.

“Amon,” she shrugged turning toward her fellow hunter. “I told you. This is stupid. You do what you want. I'm going to go hunt something I can actually eat.”

“You can't just leave!” the boy protested, but Fela waved him off and headed in the direction of camp.

Lavellan was almost sad to see the girl go. She had serious doubts about Amon's aim. The boy was frightened, and arrows nocked by anxious hands didn't fly true.

_I guess I will bleed to death after all,_ she thought.

The child before her seemed too cowardly to take a life with no audience to spur him on, but the Inquisitor was not overly surprised when he managed to steel his resolve. Amon was Dalish and she was apparently human. The hate ran deep between their races and the praise he would receive for executing her was no small thing either.

The boy clutched his bow tightly enough to turn his knuckles pale.

“You killed the Keeper,” he said simply. It was a statement, not an accusation. He was absolving his own crime by reminding himself of hers. Lavellan didn't argue with him. She just shut her eyes and waited for the pain to end. She heard a bowstring pull taut and her pulse quickened.

_It_ _will only take a moment_ _,_ she promised herself. _One moment and_ _I will wake up in the place beyond the fad_ _e and forget all of this._

The Inquisitor braced for the arrow's impact, but it never came. Puzzled, she opened her eyes. Amon hadn't moved. He was still standing right in front of her with his bow trained firmly on her heart, but his eyes were looking past her into the woods. Lavellan felt her hair stand on end. She swung her bound hands forward and used the momentum to pull herself into a sitting position. Amon didn't protest. In fact, he barely seemed aware that she had moved at all.

The forest at her back was unnaturally calm, as though all life in the vicinity had retreated. The air was tense and silent. The Inquisitor found that for the first time in hours her inability to move had nothing to do with the spiked leggings piercing her thighs. She felt a presence and it was much scarier than any arrow.

Lavellan kept her gaze on Amon who returned her panicked stare. The world around them had gone dark and the Inquisitor had to choke back a cry of fear when her mind sorted out the reason. They were in shadow. A very, very large shadow. The thought of what it might belong to made her dizzy.

Amon was backing away now, no longer frozen to the spot as she was.

“Take her!” he yelled at the mysterious predator. “She's yours! An offering!”

The thing at Lavellan's back snarled and her blood turned to ice in her veins. The beast was even closer than she had imagined. She could feel its hot breath on her neck and thought that it must be crouching—readying for attack.

Amon dropped his bow and made to run--evidently finished with trying to appease the creature. The Inquisitor shut her eyes tightly and felt a soft tickle of fur rush past her arm in pursuit of the hunter. There was a sickening thud as it knocked the boy to the ground. She could hear it begin to rip at his armor and knew it wouldn't be long before the beast tore into marrow.

“No!” Lavellan cried--eyes flying open. “Don't!”

Drawing attention to herself had been idiotic, but the enormous black shape towering over Amon obeyed. It turned its head toward the Inquisitor—boring into her with too many eyes.

“Oh,” she gasped and then promptly fainted.

 


	6. The Greatest Curse

Lavellan knew she was dead. She had called to the Dread Wolf and he had claimed her. She could still feel all those glowing pairs of eyes on her skin. It all seemed so impossible, but if Mythal really existed surely Fen'Harel did as well? Perhaps he had even been the one to turn her human. It did seem like the sort of cruel prank a trickster might enjoy.

Even if the creature in the woods had been nothing but a hallucination brought on by blood loss, she would've perished by now anyway. It didn't matter who had struck the final blow. If Amon hadn't shot her, one of the other clan members would have. Or maybe it would have been exposure, the Free Marches could expect its first snowfall of the year any day now. Alone and bare she never could have survived.

_Yes,_ she thought. _I must be dead._

There was no other explanation for her ex-lover's' presence.

“Vhenan,” Solas said stirring from his book. “You are awake.”

He sounded relieved.

“Is that _Hard in Hightown_?” she asked groggily rubbing her eyes.

The wandering apostate made a show of inspecting the novella's cover.

“So it is,” he conceded.

He had only had a small pack with him after the battle with Corypheus. He had left many of his belongings behind when he disappeared--including his favorite reading material. He hated losing such rare tomes, but the temptation to stay at Skyhold had been too strong to risk a return trip. He had been making due with more readily available literature.

“You really miss Varric that much?” Lavellan teased.

Solas couldn't hide a small smile.

“Not as much as I have missed you, Inquisitor.”

The afterlife certainly was indulgent.

“I really am beyond the Fade,” she murmured.

Confusion momentarily clouded Solas' chiseled features.

“You are nowhere of the sort,” he corrected once he had caught on to her train of thought. “You are very much alive.”

Lavellan laughed.

“You don't have to pretend,” she told him. “I'm know I'm dead. There were hunters, and blood, and a giant wolf--”

Something flickered in Solas' gaze.

“I couldn't have survived,” the Inquisitor insisted. “It isn't possible.”

Lavellan tried to raise herself out of bed, but the pain of wounds ripping open knocked the air from her lungs. Solas rushed to her side.

“I thought injuries were only for the living,” she proclaimed a bit annoyed. “Please tell me I am not going to spend eternity changing dressings.”

“A fortnight will be sufficient time to heal once you stop undoing my work.”

He had nearly depleted his mana just stifling the bleeding.

“Don't move,” he commanded.

Solas pulled the blankets back to assess the damage. The Inquisitor was clothed now, but just barely. When he had found Lavellan in the woods she had been clad only in a pair of spiked leggings. It had taken a dagger, some magic, and more than a little resolve to pry the blood caked leather from her body. With no other suitable clothing options Solas had been forced to dress her in a spare tunic. The tunic's fabric was threadbare and there were two parallel slits that started just below the waist for ease of movement. Normally it would have drowned her figure completely, but human Lavellan's shoulders were almost broad enough to rival Solas' own. The overall effect was quite different on her however.

The apostate placed a hand on his vhenan's thigh where a deep gash had reopened, and tried to focus his energy on the task of knitting skin back together. It had been months since he had been this close to someone in the physical world. His mind could be tricked, but his body could not. No matter how pleasant or companionable he found the Fade, he still craved a contact that could not be satisfied by spirit alone. He had been content before he met the Inquisitor--had almost forgotten what he was missing. When she had touched him he had been completely overwhelmed with a need long surpressed. Like a starving man set before a banquet, he had devoured her.

Even now he wanted nothing more than to take her into his arms, but it was a luxury he should never have allowed himself in the first place. If he hadn't been so indulgent with his own pleasures none of this would have happened. He had brought the wrath of the gods down upon her, and she had almost perished.

Lavellan reached a hand up to trace Solas' well-defined jaw, but he intercepted it and took her palm into his own.

“There is much we must discuss,” he said seriously. “The truth--”.

He scarcely knew where to start.

*

“Are you determined to maim all the slaves?” Ghilan'nain asked scornfully. “Or just the useful ones?”

It was a rhetorical question, and one which Andruil intended to ignore. The huntress had been in a foul mood for days, ever since her vengeance plot had gone awry.

It had started so promisingly. The look on the mortal's face when she had realized she was human—priceless, and watching the unfortunate thing limp through the woods had been just as satisfying. The gods had all taken bets on how long she would last. It had been the most fun they had enjoyed in eons. Pantheon life was so much better without that sanctimonious Mythal and her precious lap dog around—even if the latter had always kept things interesting. It had been a perfectly lovely evening and then it had all been ruined.

Andruil couldn't figure out what Fen'Harel saw in the Inquisitor. She was just an insignificant little upstart. She wasn't even pretty, and her wilderness skills were deplorable. But then, he had always had terrible taste in women. He had rejected her own advances numerous times.

Ghilan'nain put a hand on her goddess' shoulder.

“It's because of the Dread Wolf isn't it?” she probed. “You're still upset that your plan did not go as intended?”

Andruil waved the other woman's hand away.

“Why would I waste thought on such a trivial creature?” she grumbled. “Vengeance is Elgar'nan's domain. He is the one who has failed.”

“So you're not bothered at all?” Ghilan'nain inquired. “You've been using the slaves for target practice for some other reason?”

“Yes,” Andruil said unconvincingly.

“--and what might that reason be?”

The goddess of the hunt's mind provided no response.

“Do I need one?” she cried in exasperation. “They are slaves! Are you going to start wiping the vallaslin from their faces, next?”

The mother of the halla narrowed her eyes.

“Oh yes!” she shouted at her partner. “How dare I ask for a little emotional honesty? I must be allied with the Great Betrayer!”

“I didn't mean...” Andruil sighed. “I'm just--”.

“Upset,” Ghilan'nain supplied. “I know.”

She took her lover's hand and squeezed it lightly.

“It's better this way,” she assured the huntress. “The Inquisitor is the beloved of Fen'Harel, and there is no greater curse than that. Anything we could do together would pale in comparison to what he will do on his own.”

*

“Fen'Harel,” she whispered in shock.

The Inquisitor felt like a far removed spirit poking curiously through the Veil--like an outside observer trying to piece together the meaning in a stranger's words.

Wide palms curved around her waist, long elegant fingers exploring the worn fabric of her garment, searching for a weak point. Lavellan had almost forgotten how tactile he was. How his hands had taken on a life of their own when away from watchful eyes. How many times had she endured a dull lecture on the Fade for the sake of a wandering hand or the absentminded stroke of a thumb? How many times had she invited his bemused chastisement with an errant moan?

_Are you listening, vhenan? Wh_ _ere is_ _your_ _indomitable focus?_

A needy pang rang through her body at the memory, like a gong still reverberating long after the first crash. His breath swept across her face, lips beguiling as ever as they drew close.

“There was much I was dishonest about,” Solas admitted, choosing his words with painful care. “At the time...I felt it necessary. Perhaps, I was wrong. Perhaps, I misjudged.”

His eyes bored into hers seriously, as close to pleading as a god dared get.

“Do not make the same mistake.”

He bowed his head forward to rest against his heart's brow. There was a bittersweet air to the movement--as though he were trying to commit the moment to memory, as though he expected rejection.

Truth be told, Lavellan didn't want to forgive him. She wanted to hold a grudge against Solas for the rest of her life. She wanted to punish him for leaving--wanted him to experiencehow insignificanthe had made her feel. At least, that's what she'd thought she wanted.

_Fenedhis!_ She inwardly cursed.

It would be all too easy to let the anger dissipate. When she looked into his eyes she felt no resentment. Instead she was overcome by the strange need to comfort him, to reach a hand to his jaw and smooth the tension away. It wasn't fair.

“You lied to me,” she said numbly.

Solas shut his eyes tightly and pressed his forehead more firmly against hers.

“Yes,” he conceded voice thick with sorrow.

Lavellan pressed back, and a tear slid from her face onto his jawbone necklace.

“I shouldn't trust you,” she whimpered.

He took her hand in his just as he had in Crestwood and traced unintelligible patterns into her skin.

“That would be wise,” he agreed.

A painful sob built in the Inquisitor's throat, and she grit her teeth with the effort if took to swallow it back down.There were so many questions, but only one seemed to matter.

“Solas,” she managed to rasp out, “--did he ever truly exist?”

The god brought his free hand to her chin and raised it until she had no choice but to meet his gaze. Pain swirled in his storm colored eyes.

“He became real the moment we met, vhenan. Do not doubt it.”

Lavellan found that she couldn't. The sincerity in his voice was too evident to question. Whatever else he might have been, the Dread Wolf was indeed her sa'lath.The Inquisitor's eyes softened. She put a hand to his cheek.

“Ma fen,” she breathed and for once Solas didn't try to disguise his surprise.

He stared at her in cautious awe until she brushed her mouth against his.

“Ma harellan,” she murmured and on her lips the word was sweet.

 

 


End file.
